Phillipe and the Terrible, Horrible....

Phillipe and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday
Word Count: Approx. 1,900
Summary: Phillipe Guillon has finally gotten his birthday wish. Now that he has . . . it’s the last thing he wants.

I

As usual, approximately six minutes before Terry’s alarm went off, Phillipe Edouard Guillon opened his bleary eyes to another watery, London dawn.

Today was the day, then: May 7th.

Sliding out from under Terry’s grasp—no mean feat, since Terry was six-foot-four, two hundred thirty-seven pounds: a good deal larger than his more . . . streamlined boyfriend—Phillipe swung his bare feet to the chilly, hard-wood floor. Leaning forward, arms braced fists-first on the edge of the bed, he mentally prepared himself to stand and commit to this damned arbitrary day.

Otherwise known as Phillipe’s birthday.

Bloody awful days, they were. Always. Family and friends insisted on making much ado about what was really nothing.

“It is not every year my baby becomes twenty-nine years!” Phillipe’s Maman had cooed over speakerphone one year ago, at quarter of seven in the morning, in her hard-won English. She’d sounded teary and proud even across all the miles between London and Provence. “Bon anniversaire, cheri!”

Phillipe snorted softly, shaking his head. A glance at the clock-radio showed that it was already 7:30 a.m. Which meant the alarm would be going off in three . . . two. . . .

“Nyaaagh,” Terry yawned cavernously at 7:31, one big, callused hand reaching out to settle on his boyfriend’s back as he rolled over. “Ungh. Mornin’, then, love.”

“Bonjour, mon amour,” Phillipe smiled and shifted about until he could lean down and kiss Terry’s ruddy, stubbly cheek and sleepy-slack mouth. “Sleep well?”

“Bloody grand,” Terry mumbled, yawning again, and attempting to pull Phillipe back down to the bed for snuggling. “New mattress’s a slice o’ fried gold, yeah?”

“Mmhm,” Phillipe agreed, finally letting himself be pulled into Terry’s strong arms, sliding his hands up and down over said arms, and the many scrapes and scars adorning them. He made a moue and tsked. “You need a new day-job, sweetheart.”

“Ah, is tusa gao, mo chridhe,” Terry sighed in sleepy Gaelic, then chuckled. “You know the only thing I love more than you, is a fierce match-up and a good pint after.”

“I do know this, and I’m flattered to come in second place to such noble competitors as rugby, and a black-and-tan.”

“As you should be, my pretty Papillion. Anyway!” Terry said, briskly, brightly, rolling over onto Phillipe to straddle and pin him. His round grey eyes were sparkling with mischief, his thatchy, strawberry-blond hair a messy halo. “Enough of that rubbish, lovely. Y’know what today is, right?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Phillipe murmured dryly, his lips twitching as he gazed up at the big, burly, blond forward who’d stolen his heart four years ago, almost to the day. “Remind me?”

Grinning, Terry leaned down to nuzzle Phillipe’s cheek, ear, and neck, before pecking his lips for a long moment. That peck almost became something delightfully protracted, but Terry pulled away and bounded to his feet with far too much energy. He strode to their bathroom, tall, tan—everywhere but his moon-pale backside and upper thighs—and built like a wall of hairy muscle.

“Don’t tell me you bloody forgot, love? It’s Sunday!” he tossed over his shoulder excitedly. “We’re goin’ to see the new Statham-flick with Paulie and Anya at quarter of one!”

Three minutes later, Phillipe was still laying in Terry’s spot in their bed, blinking up at the ceiling, a small frown touching his fine, dark features as he listened to the shower run and Terry warble off-key.

Melancholy settled over him, as inevitable as his next breath, and his next, as he slowly came to accept the fact that every couple reached a point in their relationship where such things as birthdays and anniversaries were overlooked—forgotten.

And while he was glad he and Terry were comfortable enough in their relationship to take each other for granted . . . now that it’d finally happened, Phillipe wasn’t so sure he was happy about his thirtieth birthday, dreadful day that it was, being forgotten by the man he loved.

II

“And then, Statham’s, like: “And I’m all outta bubblegum. . . .”

Paul and Anya Chu laughed heartily, the former slapping Terry five while the latter tucked into the last of her tiramisu with gusto. Phillipe merely picked at his cherry chocolate cheesecake—normally his favorite dessert of the many to be had at The Six-Toed Sloth—and tried not to snap at the three of them.

“Eh—what’s the matter, mo chridhe?” Terry asked, glancing over at Phillipe. His big grin had faded and been replaced by frowning concern. “Did you not fancy the film?”

“What?” Blinking blankly, for a few moments, Phillipe couldn’t even remember what the current subject under discussion was, other than not-my-birthday. Then he remembered: the damned film. “Oh.” He heaved a sigh and took a bite of his cheesecake. Only the third in the nearly ten minutes since the server had bought it. “It was alright, love.”

“Better than alright! Best film he’s done since Transporter 2!” Paul crowed, holding up his hand for another high-five, in which Terry distractedly indulged him, without taking his eyes off Phillipe.

“Is something the matter, love?” he murmured, leaning in to buss Phillipe’s cheek. Phillipe met his boyfriend’s bright, grey eyes, seeing nothing but love and concern in them, and tried to smile, fighting off another sigh. Honestly, he’d thought it’d take more than three years of birthdays—never mind their anniversary, as he and Terry disagreed on which date was their true anniversary: the night they’d met, which’d been during Phillipe’s disastrous blind-date with a coworker . . . or the afternoon of their first coffee date—for he and Terry to reach that point.

The point where the person who’d excited and enchanted—who’d literally changed one’s entire life for the better—became as boring and predictable . . . as well-worn as an old pair of argyles.

Phillipe felt a sudden surge of hot rage at them—not just Terry, Paul, and Anya—but all his friends and, apparently, his family, who’d not even bothered to wish him happy birthday over Facebook. The day was more than half-over and he’d not had so much as one happy-returns. None, except the few automated messages from various online groups and clubs he’d joined and never kept up with.

How could they have all forgotten? What with social media and e-calendars, there should’ve been plenty of reminders that today was not just Phillipe’s birthday, but a landmark birthday, at that.

The thirtieth.

How could they have all forgotten? Or. . . .

Or did they just not care, anymore?

Is that it? Phillipe thought, like a bolt from the blue. His face had grown flushed and hot with his anger, unreasoning though it was, but in the face of this sudden realization, it blanched and went cold. After years of hearing me complain about getting older and hating my birthdays . . . have they finally just done as I always asked of them and put my birthday out of mind, entirely?

In that moment, the mounting irritation, which had been building in him all morning to a roiling, red rage that’d festered for the first bit of the afternoon, seemed silly indeed. It turned, in fact, to ashen-grey despondence.

For once, Phillipe had gotten exactly what he’d been asking for, and for more birthdays than he could remember. All he’d ever asked of his loved ones for his birthday had finally happened. His birthday was being treated like the silly, un-special day it’d always been. It had been forgotten by all the people who’d made such ado about it for so many years.

Really, Phillipe told himself with grit-toothed pep. I should be happy about this. I am happy about this.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he lied to Terry, stealing a kiss that felt as if it should’ve tasted of rue and bitterness, but was instead as sweet as Terry’s crème Brule.

III

Phillipe stood, leaning against the fenced-in, chest-high railing of the shared terrace, staring out into the night. Behind him, the flat was bright and cluttered, as usual, but not with party paraphernalia or presents, people and their pets.

It was wrong, and it hurt Phillipe’s already-bruised heart to see it. For him, it was a feeling of being homesick for a place one hadn’t even realized was home until that place had been razed to the ground. Even his Maman hadn’t called to wish him well.

Phillipe sighed, as the most awful feeling he’d ever felt began to well up in him. It wasn’t anger, no. It was despair, plain and simple.

Why had I ever wanted my birthday to be forgotten to begin with? Did I feel I was too loved and celebrated? Was I tired of the laughter and love, fun and presents? Or was it that I was a spoiled fool who didn’t know how good he had it?

That last choice seemed a bit too spot-on to be ignored. . . .

“Pip? Love?”

Startled into blinking, tears ran down Phillipe’s face, which he hastily tried to wipe away before turning to face his boyfriend. But at the genuinely compassionate, loving expression on Terry’s square, ordinary, somewhat guilty face, Phillipe burst into tears in a way he never had: a sudden crying jag that didn’t end until well after Terry had pulled in into a tight embrace. The other man smelled of fabric softener, astringent aftershave, and home.

“It was all my idea,” he kept mumbling, one hand soothing up and down Phillipe’s back, the other cradling the back of his head. “My stupid idea. I even got everyone else to play along like they forgot, too. Even your Mum.”

“Wh-what?” Phillipe sniffled, leaning back just enough to look up into Terry’s apologetic grey eyes.

“The party’s set up over at Paulie and Ahn’s flat. Everyone’s there—we even flew y’Mum in from Provence for a few days as part of the surprise.”

“Surprise?” Phillipe asked in a tear-thick voice and Terry nodded glumly.

“Yeah, mo chridhe. That’s all it was: my cack-handed attempt to make your birthday something you’d enjoy and maybe look forward to, in future.” Terry’s brows furrowed in consternation. “I didn’t realize I’d gone overboard with tryin’ to deflect your suspicion. I’m sorry, love. Sorry I hurt you while tryin’ to make this birthday special for you.”

Phillipe could only blink and gape up at his contrite boyfriend for long moments before a tentative smile curved his bitten lips and some of the heavy pall surrounding his heart and mind began to lift.

“So . . . you didn’t all forget me?” he asked in a small voice. Terry winced and hugged him close again.

“No, love. Never.”

“Then . . . then this is the best birthday ever. You gave me the best gift anyone ever has.”

“What? A day of misery and sadness?” Terry snorted. “You’re welcome.”

“No.” Phillipe bounced up on his toes to kiss his boyfriend soundly. Terry tasted like crème Brule and Phillipe’s tears. “You gave me perspective. I really am the luckiest person in the world, to have you all willing to go to such lengths just to give me a good birthday. I love you all very much. You especially, Mr. MacTavish.”

“You . . . you mean that?” Terry whispered between kisses. Phillipe, still crying a little, nodded.

“Mmhm. There’s only one thing that’d make this night even better?” Grinning up into Terry’s eyes, Phillipe laughed. “Take me to my party, hmm? I bloody-well need one, after the day I’ve had!”

Terry grinned back, hauling Phillipe close again for another kiss.

“Là-breith sona dhut, a Phillipe. Happy birthday.”

END

End Notes: The instructions for this assignment were:
a.) In a 500 to 600 word paragraph, write an example that will connect the reader with your character's disappointment/mild anger/ irritation that his or her friend/partner/family forgot her birthday.

b.) In a 500 to 600 word paragraph, write an example that will connect the reader with your character being furious that his or her friend/partner/family forgot her birthday.

c.) In a third 500-600 word paragraph, write an example that connects the reader with a level of anger in your character that is neither mild nor extreme that his or her friend/partner/family forgot her birthday.